Monday, 27 February 2012


The Spontaneous Ignition Of Fire Of The Souls
(Legally Available In 9 Days)


Making dinner
Boiling water
Scrape a sticky patch off the floor
Sex seems continents away
I miss you.

Left-overs it is
A rehash of empties
Recycle all that glass
There has got to be 5 cents a piece.

Nine days of practice
Mourning still
I won’t wear black though
Too obvious
Far too obvious because really
There was no death.

A near miss
Gabby Gifford’s madman shooter-
She needs a year
Nice to see her walk
Off with her husband like that.
Make-up all done

No grief for Tuesday
Take in small doses
As slow as monsters can
If you can still see
Do it again
Just to ensure it’s working properly
On your tear chemistry.

It’s a damn shame
What people do to each other.


-These days.
That ex-boyfriend’s sharp-as-glass-shards words
Surface from the subconscious
Bubble up
Thick liquids.

I wipe it off again
Like the stove counters
Move on, move on.

There is sun in the room
It reveals
Food splatters from
Our fights
I am embarrassed
To be left
With the memory.
Hanging from the wall paper
The flowers
Disfigured by
Now brown
On the beige texture
Topped with a noodle
Grape soda
And potato.

I get to clean it
I get to remember
Thought I would choose to ignore the situation
Maybe drown it out with music
A bit
Cleanse my palette
Arrest the phantom telephone ringing
To where I snap off the radio
To check
And see if it is.

I believe I will catch some
From it all
Catch my breath
It escapes me
Red balloons and knives
Black poison forming
In the rot of the food
In the absence of you.

7 Days

I try cleaning this mess
With my opposite hand
It’s not so bad
I won’t die
Your love at first bite
Your luv eat first bite
My kitchen
Your heart
A bowl full of mixed vegetables.

Skully Cross Bones and Performers

I wander
Slow motion through the sanitized mall
My reflection
Long tan coat
Tall androgynous looking figure
Respectable enough
To walk through a mall
Still oddly shaped though;
Spiky geometric shape
A type of wobble
Hard to measure
Or calibrate
I figure
A shape with a curved bottom and two or three peaks on top.

The shop girl arranges the t-shirts
The janitor has a gaze as silent as my own
I turn at the smell of toasting bread
Some faint dill dressings float by my nose
There are cans of soda I just don’t want.

This place
Was designed
By rodeo clowns with a glass fetish.

I freeze in place
Stick my arms straight out.
No one blinks.

Three (Forests)

I miss the green
Laden with snow
The moan of the weight
The crows all bugging each other.

I can’t tell you
How big the sky is
I write from home
The papers from the note pad
Are small
And flying
All around the room.
I pull off each sheet
Then the next
And another
Et cetera.

But seeing only this
Macrovision texture on bark
The stick of pine
No smog darling
No cement big city
No argument
Harsh collision
No cramped quarters
No cut in line
Only movement
In response to

I duck behind branches
Hide from nothing
Shelter my face
From sharp ice
A stinging slap
A very rude forest
A clever ruse.

When it snows there is a real quiet.


How many worlds can I meet you in?
Dive through the waters
And deeper
Get’s darker every minute
Strange fish, older than we’ve ever been
A watery grave
Us dancing
Arms hooked 
Turning like slow motion
The silt
Knowing to surface
Will give us the bends
Crippled on the small
Life boat
Exposed like turtles
Bellies in the sun.

Growing Up

Its eMaggeddon
The real Maggeddon
Tornadoes in January
Lost puppies
I can not stop crying
There are no borders
It is leap year
And I am supposed to ask you to marry me.

It is popular to witness
The moral melt down
A move towards
Women with nothing to say

I am half-way
My life span
Our world
Incrementally smaller and smaller
New York Nashville Toronto
All in
One place now
A world of wires
Faster than we blink.

We collect in puddles
No more wait
To cross ponds
Some so challenged
To see the view
Right in front of their eyes.
I pour sand on my steps
To make sure no one slips
Tokyo cleans the windows
Polished surfaces
For perfect vision.

It is a marathon for morality
A search for similarity
Groups seek same
Like a hotel full of cowboys
We find our own
Like wolves
Weird children

Say nothing for how.
We recognize our own
By taste
Same flavour
Same markings
Representing something intangible.

I get leg cramps
Every single morning
Evenings the same
Pretty much oversize at birth
My mother wondering why
And now
Beyond saving
Manufactured jeans will never fit
Blend in with coloured dots
My clan
Cloaked ephemeral cyborg
Often in shadow
In puddles
Each of us with one toe
In the water.

It is a new language
Double entendre
A thank you for the dance
A bing sound
A vibrate
The Russian Pavlov would drool himself.

We find each other blind folded in the dark
That there were more
Message sent
By means of pony
Or pigeon
But no more than that yet
No secret handshakes these days
We rely on recall
Like fictional spies
From black and white movies.

Shoveling Snow

It is still cold here
But the sun is out
Some power in the dark
Winds gust
Snow blasts by
Like ghosts
I have to dig us out again
Solid blocks of ice
Only charming for things like sculpture
Everything immobilized by
Glassy covers.

It is pretty
A lovely cleanse
Kills everything
A snap purification.

In the clean though,
is the task of moving.
That damn taxi has been
Outside my house
With the meter running
For seven days now.

A backwoods trailer
Looks appealing right now
The rage stems from
Not being
Able to hear
Or see yourself
A kind of blindness
Inability to sort through thoughts:
Mine from yours
Yours from theirs
Like socks
It is so good
So good
All artists now report to the Big Machine
Big minds work for bigger giants
Making it all up
Not for God or love or
The human condition
But to tell you
Happiness is wrapped in plastic only 7.99.

The resulting vortex is fearsome
Lost nuance
No suggestion
But command
Washing our clothes
Washing our brains at the same.

The spider grows too
The evolution
Of web
Created as fast as nothing
It’s desires


I inherited a push broom
And heard the opera at the same time
Lost in a sea of inconsolability
Returns her cursed ring to the Rhinestone Maidens
Valhalla is burning
I sweep the floors
There are piles of junk and sneakers
Refused invitations
Candy wrappers
Stuff is everywhere.
I dream of an enormous dog outside a window
It attacks children but there is no blood from bites
I refuse to stand down
And usher the children inside.

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